January 2012
5 posts
“The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables.
Said if I could get down...”
– “The Madness Vase,” by Andrea Gibson (via englishistheartofbullshit)
5 tags
December 2011
11 posts
6 tags
Burning the Old Year
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again...
3 tags
3 tags
3 tags
I Wrote This For You: The Forest Of Stars →
“If you were to press your heart close up against somebody else’s heart...”
– Andrea Gibson (via asleeplessmindxvx)
November 2011
4 posts
Spaces, by Arkaye Kierulf →
4 tags
When They Come Alive
Try to keep them, poet, those erotic visions of yours, however few of them there are that can be stilled. Put them, half-hidden, in your lines. Try to hold them, poet, when they come alive in your mind at night or in the brightness of noon.
~ C.P. Cavafy
Jeanette Winterson: Written on the Body →
October 2011
6 posts
2 tags
WatchShe and Her Cat
3 tags
4 tags
Different Ways to Pray
There was the method of kneeling, a fine method, if you lived in a country where stones were smooth. The women dreamed wistfully of bleached courtyards, hidden corners where knee fit rock. Their prayers were weathered rib bones, small calcium words uttered in sequence, as if this shedding of syllables could somehow fuse them to the sky. There were the men who had been shepherds so long they...
2 tags
3 tags
Yarn →
That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth. You can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out. And it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written, I’m still working on my rhythm. My tongue gets tied sometimes, my throat gets dry, my hands start trembling. Honestly, the only thing I’ve mastered is how to write a really good ending. But I’m getting pretty tired of finish lines. So...
The Sky
I like it with nothing. Is it what I was? What I will be? I look out there by the hour, so clear, so sure. I could smile, or frown—still nothing.
Be my father, be my mother, great sleep of blue; reach far within me; open doors, find whatever is hiding; invite it for many clear days in the sun.
When I turn away I know you are there. We won’t forget each other: every look is a...
September 2011
3 posts
1 tag
"Something's gotta give, it may as well be our...
August 2011
1 post
4 tags
Looking Around, Believing
How strange that we can begin at any time. With two feet we get down the street. With a hand we undo the rose. With an eye we lift up the peach tree And hold it up to the wind — white blossoms At our feet. Like today. I started In the yard with my daughter, With my wife poking at a potted geranium, And now I am walking down the street, Amazed that the sun is only so high, Just over the roof, and...
June 2011
3 posts
“Starfish
This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to...”
– Eleanor Lerman
“The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though...”
– Mary Oliver
May 2011
1 post
“Act III, Sc. 2
By Jorie Graham
Look she said this is not the distance
we...”
– http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242174
“I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise. I am Jack’s Broken Heart.”
– Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)
March 2011
11 posts
2 tags
Because You Long For Home
And tomorrow, rain will fall—- cover everything with its tiny hands. Tomorrow the face you see before you will be that of a doorway: unclouded, your eyes train on the horizon, sunlight seeping in. The colors release you, hold you up to the light. The light is a coin turned over in the palm of your hand. That coin is a key. You are the light, folding in on itself. Put them in your pocket-...
3 tags
3 tags
3 tags
Giving Voice to the Wildness →
Ephemera Series by Susan Friedman
3 tags
Words When We Need Them
Before this early moment, another, ripe with rain, the scent of its own full shape.
Each day the rooster we have never seen raises the first greeting and darkness which holds us in its loose pocket all night sets us down.
Now we walk, waking up rooms, switching on lights. Into the breath, wordless but ripe with all possible words, messages not yet gathered or sent.
Morning...
3 tags
“This fall I think you’re riding for - it’s a special kind of fall, a...”
– J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
Don't put me in a box... →
And "Tidal" became a different word to me. →
